


Resistance is Futile

by illogicalbroccoli



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Gen, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Borg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 06:17:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20092648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illogicalbroccoli/pseuds/illogicalbroccoli
Summary: After a panic attack on the bridge, Captain Picard must confront some troubling feelings about the Borg





	Resistance is Futile

_Captain’s Log: continuation. Commander Riker informs me that all is ready for our battle drill. Given recent events, I cannot blame Starfleet’s desire to explore new tactics against the Borg; but I also must admit that, on a personal level, I am not greatly looking forward to the experience._

Picard stepped out of his ready room onto the bridge. The bridge crew were all at their usual posts, Riker already sitting awkwardly to the right of the captain’s chair.

“Captain on the bridge,” the first officer said crisply as he stood.

“As you were,” Picard said with a motion for them all to sit. “Is everything ready?”

“All ready sir.”

“Very well. Computer, begin simulation.”

Picard strode across the deck and took his seat. 

Lieutenant Worf’s voice came from behind him: “Borg vessel detected,” 

“On screen.”

The screen jumped from a generic starfield to a view of an all-too-familiar gray cube. Picard felt his heart begin to beat faster, and he swallowed the strangely bitter taste that had materialised in his mouth.

“Range five hundred thousand kilometres and closing rapidly. They will be in weapons range in approximately one hundred and eighty seconds.”

“Raise shields. Arm phasers. Prepare the modified torpedoes. Send a priority one signal to – ”

The captain’s order was cut off by a chorus of flat voices over the intercom.

**“We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Your cultural and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile.”**

Picard found his hand trembling on the arm of his chair. He moved it to his lap, hoping it would be less noticeable. 

“Mr. Data, initialise tactical plan Gamma-Six.”

“Affirmative, Captain.” 

The android’s fingers danced over the control panel, almost faster than a human eye could track. 

“Mr. Worf, prepare to fire on my mark.”

**“It is not too late to return. The Collective holds no grudges.” **

“What?”

“I am not aware that anyone spoke, Captain,” Data said. 

“That message,” Picard said, with more heat than he had intended. “That is not a standard Borg communication. Who programmed that?”

“The message is a direct transcript of the one sent by the cube on Stardate 44002.3,” Data said. 

“Nonsense!” Picard snapped. “It – ”

**“Remember.”**

“There, again! What is this?” 

Picard realized that he was shouting. He seemed to have lost any control of his tone or demeanour. His heart was hurling itself against his ribs, and his skin was flushed and tingling. 

“No further transmission has been received,” Data said. 

“The Borg ship has locked a tractor beam on us,” Worf said. “Shall I open fire?”

His voice sounded faint, muffled and slightly distorted. On the screen, the image of the Borg cube was overlaid by the rippling green of the tractor beam. Picard tried to answer yes, give the order to fire, but his mouth no longer seemed to to obey him. 

“Come back.”

Picard felt his limbs go soft. His head lolled to the side and he began to slide out of his chair. He was aware that spit was dribbling from his open mouth, and felt deeply ashamed that he no longer seemed to have the ability to close it. 

Through increasingly blurred vision, he saw Riker jump from his seat and lean over him. 

“Computer, halt simulation!” the first officer shouted, then tapped his communicator. “Doctor Crusher to the bridge, we have a medical emergency! The captain has collapsed!”

Picard’s gaze was locked on the screen, where the now-frozen cube still loomed through the tractor beam’s curtain. Picard found himself tracing the intricate lines of its exposed workings, the complex patterns of its overlapping layers. They seemed at that moment almost like the calligraphy of some impossibly intricate script, one that encoded a message of the greatest urgency that he was tantalisingly close to deciphering…

He just barely heard the whoosh of the turbolift door, the drumming of the medical team’s feet, Beverley’s voice.

“Jean-Luc? Can you hear me?”

He felt a hand on his neck, cool against his skin. 

“Can you hear me?” she said again. 

Picard found his mouth moving to slur out an answer.

“Resistance is futile,” he said.

Then there was nothing.

*

“Essentially, as far as I can tell, there’s nothing wrong with you,” Beverley Crusher concluded. “Brain scans show no irregularities, your vital signs are perfectly normal, aside from some slightly elevated seratonin and adrenaline levels, and there are no foreign bodies or substances in your system.”

Picard took this information without expression. He has been unconscious for nearly sixteen hours, during which, Doctor Crusher said, his vital signs had remained firmly within normal parameters. He had, essentially, just been asleep. When he woke in sickbay, none of the distressing symptoms were with him – he felt perfectly healthy, if tired. 

“I had wondered if there were perhaps some remnant of Borg technology,” he said, “some sub-nano-level device that might have been triggered.”

Beverley shook her head. 

“Given how little we know about the Borg, I couldn’t completely rule it out, but there is nothing to suggest it. Something like that ought to have left some trace in the brain, if nothing else in disrupted neural connections.”

Picard fingered the collar of his sickbay gown. 

“I do not like the fact that I collapsed without any clear reason,” he said.

“Neither do I,” Crusher said grimly. “I’m going to think if there are any other tests I can run. But we have to face the possibility that this does not have a straightforwardly physical cause.”

“You mean, I may be going mad,” Picard said with a sour smile.

“I mean that there may be a psychological factor to this,” she responded calmly. “I have scheduled you an appointment with Deanna. This is more her department, I think. In the meantime, I have placed you on medical leave.”

Picard struggled to sit up, mouth open to protest.

“No, Jean-Luc,” Doctor Crusher said, laying a hand gently on his arm. “I’m not going to take the risk. Until we understand what happened, and if there is any possibility of its happening again, I can’t in good conscience let you resume your duties. Commander Riker is perfectly capable of managing our mission.”

“The drill – ”

Picard stood, and suddenly felt dizzy. He sat heavily back down on the biobed. 

“Starfleet has cancelled our participation,” Beverley said. “We’ve been assigned to measuring radiation levels in the Elvodar Nebula.”

Picard smiled mirthlessly again. 

“Nothing but the most challenging missions for the Enterprise.”

“Rest up, Jean-Luc,” Crusher continued. “Read something light. Have a nice warm drink. Nothing alcoholic, though. I’ve scheduled you to talk to Deanna tomorrow. It’ll be up to her to clear you for duty.”

For a moment, Picard stiffened to protest, but then deflated.

“Yes Doctor,” he said with just a touch of sarcasm.

“That’s a good captain,” Beverley replied with a similar tone. “Now let’s get you some clothes.”

* 

Picard found the rest of that day deeply difficult. He tried to take Beverley’s orders – he sat and flipped through one of his favourite P. G. Wodehouse novels, drank tea, played small, simple games on his console. He could not keep his mind off his collapse. What had caused so extraordinary an event? What was wrong with him? With a kind of ruthless thoroughness, he began going through his thoughts and sensations on the holodeck, trying to find some logic, some underlying cause. He found himself pacing around his quarters, muttering vague syllogisms to himself under his breath. His sour quip about going mad began to feel less and less ironic. He could not understand, and it frightened him. The key had to be those hallucinations. That voice. What had his imagined Borg said? Come Back. Remember. The Collective holds no grudges. He was getting close, he could feel it. There was the ghost of a feeling, just out of his mental reach. He stopped pacing and took a deep breath. He mustn’t strain for it. Must let it come to him. Like fishing, as he had done with his uncle on the Rhône all those years ago. If one waded in splashing, he would only frighten it. Best to be patient, to wait, to –  
Then he had it. The fish had, of its own accord, jumped out of the water and fallen shining into his lap. He understood, and it frightened him even more.

*

Ten minutes later, Counsellor Troi walked into his quarters.

“Captain,” she said. 

She was dressed in uniform, but her hair was wet and she was not wearing makeup.

“I’m sorry to call on you during your off-duty hours,” Picard said. 

“It’s perfectly fine, Captain. What’s happening? I wasn’t scheduled to evaluate you until tomorrow.”

“I understand!” he said. “I know – ” 

He trailed off. 

“Why don’t we sit down,” Troi said, motioning to Picard’s armchair. 

Gratefully, he sank into it, while she perched on a nearby stool. 

“Go on, sir,” she said. “What was it you understood?”

“Why I collapsed. I understand it now. I know what I felt, what was happening.”

She did not respond, only sat, eyes fixed on his, listening.

“I experienced – a kind of flashback.”

Troi nodded. “That’s perfectly understandable. After a traumatic event, it’s very common for people to unwillingly relive their experience.”

Picard shook his head emphatically. 

“No! It wasn’t traumatic. That’s the thing.”

He stopped again. He felt his skin starting to flush, and his mouth to go dry. 

Dear God, not again, he thought. 

Then he realised that this was not the same feeling as what he experienced on the holodeck, but one much more familiar. Counsellor Troi clearly sensed it – she probably could have done so even without her psychic gifts.

“You know anything you tell me will be strictly confidential,” she said. “The only thing I will pass on is my professional conclusion as to whether or not you are fit to command.”

She smiled reassuringly.

“As I’m sure you will be,” she said.

Picard nodded, and opened his mouth to speak again. But the words would not come. 

“I’m sorry, Counsellor,” he said. “I… I want to tell you. Believe me I do.”

“But?” 

But what? That was the question. He could not bear to. Could not believe that she could hear it without judgement. His rationality told him that she had encountered many comparable situations, that he had always known her to be kind and fair-minded. Nevertheless, he could not shake the monstrous feeling that what he had to reveal would be a step too far. 

“Captain?” 

To his horror, Picard realised he had started crying. 

“I am sorry. I cannot.”

Troi watched him with concern and caring etched on her face. 

“Would it help to talk to someone else?”

Would it? Picard went through his crew. Beverley? No, there was too much history there, already too many unspoken things and unacknowledged feelings, even without what he had to reveal. Guinan? There was no-one on the Enterprise with whom he had a closer connection, no-one he trusted more. But given her own past, how could he tell her this. Riker? His Number One was, by and large, a sensible man, and someone who Picard knew would weigh things carefully. His devotion to his captain would surely shield Picard from too much judgement. No. He could not take advantage of Riker’s loyalty, could not place this burden on his shoulders as well. But who else was there? Picard closed his eyes breathed in and out slowly, then re-opened them.

“Data,” he said.

*

“You must find it strange that I asked for you,” Picard said.

Data inclined his head slightly to the side. 

“I must admit, Captain, ths is not a role that I anticipated playing,” he said. “Having no familiarity with emotional distress myself, I had not expected being asked to evaluate another being’s emotional stability.”

Picard nodded. Data sat in the same chair Counsellor Troi had occupied not long ago. After a brief conversation with the android, just out of Picard’s earshot, she had excused herself, leaving the Captain alone with his Operations Officer.

“That is precisely why I have asked for you,” Picard said. “What I am about to say would likely provoke quite the emotional reaction in most people.”

Data nodded.

“That is not a danger in my case,” he said. 

“In addition,” Picard went on, “A determination needs to be made as to whether I am psychologically capable of resuming command of the Enterprise. You are the only person I can count on to evaluate this objectively, without letting affection, or friendship or any other emotion interfere with your logic.”

Data received this without response. 

“And finally,” Picard continued, “You are the one person I can count on never to reveal anything I tell you, willingly or unwillingly.”

“You are aware,” Data replied, “that my ethical program will not allow me to conceal anything that would be harmful to this ship or anyone aboard it.”

“I know,” Picard said. “Nor would I expect you to. But unless you so determine, I am ordering you not to tell anyone what I am about to say to you without my express permission.”

Data gave a tiny nod. Picard closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then let it out with a sigh. 

“Data,” he said. “Are you familiar with the results of my psychological screenings after my assimilation?”

“Counsellor Troi gave me access when you asked to meet with me,” Data said. “You were cleared for command. The Starfleet psychiatric office’s report noted that you were experiencing understandable Post-Traumatic Stress symptoms, including feelings of anger toward the Borg, guilt and shame at your perceived failure to resist them, and anxiety concerning your crew’s reactions toward you in light of their experience with Locutus.”

Picard nodded slowly. 

“All of that is entirely accurate,” he said. “I felt – I still feel – all those things. But that is not all I feel. I did not tell Counsellor Troi, or the Starfleet psychologists, everything I felt.”

“Why not?” Data said. “Surely it was in your interest to inform them as fully as possible about your psychological state.”

“For the same reason I am now speaking to you,” Picard said. “Shame.”

Data said nothing.

“I don’t imagine that is a sensation you understand much, do you?” Picard went on.

“Shame,” Data said. “An emotion triggered by a failure to live up moral standards, for oneself, either those one has established for oneself, or those set by one’s society. Characterised by self-directed anger, feelings of worthlessness, a desire to withdraw from society.”

Data paused.

“You are correct, sir. It is not a condition which I have experienced. The closest I can come to it is the awareness that some action of mine risks violating my ethical program.”

Picard smiled grimly. 

“I can’t imagine that feels as debilitating as this,” he said.

“It does not ‘feel’ like anything, Captain. If I am in danger of violating my ethical program, a series of subroutines are activated which – ”

“Yes, yes,” Picard said. “Thank you, Commander.”

Picard cleared his throat.

“Data,” he said. “Do you know why the Borg say that resistence is futile?”

“My assumption had been that it was a reference to their belief that their superior technological and computational abilities would render any attempt to stand against them fruitless. In human terms, I believe it would be classed as a boast and as a threat.”

Picard nodded.

“So we all assumed. And I won’t deny that there is an element of that there. But.” 

He paused, drew a deep breath.

“But,” he went on, “there is another meaning as well. The Borg believe that resistence is futile in the same sense that it would be futile for a drowning man to resist his rescue. The Borg see joining the Collective as the only way for any organism to approach perfection. Resisting assimilation is against one’s own interest.”

“It is reasonable that the Borg would believe this,” Data said. 

“Quite so,” Picard said. “The problem – my problem – is that I cannot be sure that I disagree with them.”

Despite himself, Picard had been expecting Data to respond with a look of shock, to draw back from him in disgust, even to storm out of the room. Of course, he did none of this. All he did was raise one eyebrow, Vulcan-fashion, while continuing to look earnestly into his captain’s face. 

“You believe that it is in the best interest of all lifeforms to become part of the Borg Collective?” Data asked.

Picard shook his head violently. 

“No! I don’t! I don’t think I do. But I cannot say with complete certainty that I do not believe it. I cannot look on assimilation the way others do. Most people, it seems, see it as a kind of death, or undeath, enslavement to a cold, mechanical intelligence that turns them into mindless puppets.”

“And you do not?” Data asked.

“Not after having experienced it,” Picard said. “It is nothing like that. It is nothing like anyone can imagine. I told you I left out an emotion when I spoke to Counsellor Troi and the Starfleet psychologists. I also kept it from my brother – I know he would never have understood!”

“What emotion was that, Sir?” Data asked. Perhaps it was an illusion, but Picard felt that there was a slight eagerness in his voice. 

“Peace,” he said.

“Peace,” Data echoed. 

Please don’t define it, Picard thought. To his relief, Data remained silent. 

“That is the closest word I can find,” Picard said. “You could not conceive of the experience. Oh, I don’t mean just you, Data. No individual being could. Even I, now, am very aware that my memory of the sensation is only a faint shadow of its full nature. I was… everywhere. I was billions of minds, all thinking together. Oh, Picard was in there, but only as one of uncountable consciousnesses that the Borg had incorporated. And not merely of living drones. Every individual, every species that the Borg have ever assimilated is preserved. There must be more than a trillion of them. The memory resources that the Borg have at their disposal must be staggering. I cannot imagine how much storage capacity they must – no, Data, please do not tell me.”

Data closed the mouth he had just opened.

“And the knowledge! The Borg have assimilated thousands, perhaps millions of societies. And it is all there. Their science, their culture, their arts – my God, Data, the Borg are the greatest art gallery and library in the universe!” Picard shook his head slowly. “It is… indescribable.”

He fell silent. Data sat across from him, equally quiet. The silence contiued, and Picard realised that Data was not going to break it – he did not feel any awkwardness, or any pressure to speak when he had nothing to say. If Picard wished the discussion to continue, he would have to speak. But he was not sure what to say. 

“Please say something, Data,” Picard finally said.

“May I ask a question?” Data said.

“Please do,” Picard said. 

“You speak of emotions such as wonder and peace. When you were part of the collective, did you experience these feelings, or are they your reactions now upon remembering?”

Picard furrowed his brow.

“Data, for a man who claims to have no experience with emotion, you can show a remarkably subtle insight into them,” he said. 

“Thank you, sir,” Data said. “I am basing this question on my own experience. I contain the memories of the colonists of Omicron Theta. While I have access to the information contained, I am not able to process any of their emotional states. I hypothesised that the Borg Collective might be in a similar position with regard to the species they have assimilated.”

“And you are right. The Collective does not experience anything like what we would describe as emotions. But when I think back on it now, when I translate the experience into human terms, that is the closest I can come.”

“I believe I understand,” Data said. “I experience similar difficulty in attempting to describe my own subjective experience to organic beings. And in comprehending them when they speak of theirs.”

“Exactly!” Picard said. “I thought you might. But the point remains. When I think about the experience itself, when I strip away all the fear and rage that accompanied assimilation, and the guilt over the deaths Locutus caused… I cannot recall it as anything other than serenity. And I find myself asking…” He paused. “Why do we resist? When there is such peace, such wonder in merging with the Collective… Perhaps resistence truly is futile. Perhaps we are simply petulent children, throwing away the food that we would love if we were only to try it.”

“Based on what I have heard,” Data said, “the consensus is that we resist the Borg because to become assimilated would be to renounce our identities as individuals.” 

“Precisely,” Picard said. “Therein lies the rub. Individuality. We make so much of it, in the Federation. Individual rights. Individual happiness. The sacred uniqueness of every sentient being. The question is, the question I cannot answer, is what if we are wrong? What if individuality is an evolutionary dead-end? Or perhaps a transitional stage, which must inevitably give way to something great? After all, are our own bodies not collectives of single-celled organisms? When our cells assert their individuality, we call that cancer.” 

“Evolution is not teleological, sir,” Data said. “No evolutionary adaptation is either inevitable or inherently flawed.”

“I know, Data.” Picard stopped, lost in thought. “I am not making a scientific statement, but more a… a spiritual one, perhaps. I am not a religious man, Data. I have never found a faith to which I could commit myself. But I have always believed, or imagined, that the universe was not entirely random. That there was an order, perhaps even a purpose, a goal toward which all sentient beings, perhaps all existence itself, was unknowingly striving…”

Picard trailed off. Data said nothing. 

Pull yourself together, Jean-Luc he told himself sternly. 

“There are many species that have sacrificed their individuality, to some degree. Think of the Bynars, with their cybernetically-bonded pairs. Or Ambassador Riva’s Chorus. Who is to say that they are not further along the journey to enlightenment than we are? There are many faiths, on many worlds, that do not set as high a value on individuality as we do. Faiths in which the individual consciousness is seen as an obstacle to enlightenment, even the source of all evil.”

Data nodded, seemed to think a moment, then spoke: “in many of those traditions, it is my understanding that the goal is to merge the individual consciousness with an ultimate or higher intelligence or state of being, which has been referred to variously as Brahman, God, Logos, K’Vuht, Shoshen – ”

Data caught sight of Picard’s raised hand and reigned himself in.

“In light of this,” he said, “is it your contention that you consider the Borg to be God?” 

Picard smiled ruefully.

“No, Data. I am not that far gone. The Borg are not God, or a god. They are as bound by the material universe as we are. For the moment, at least. But, from my brief experience with the Collective, I believe that that transcendence is what they ultimately seek. They would not conceive of it in that sense, of course; the Collective conceives of its goal simply as perfection. I do not think, however, that there is any practical difference.”

“I see,” Data said. “Your question, then, is whether the loss of individuality is a reasonable price to pay for participation in an emergent godhead.”

“That is, perhaps an oversimplification,” Picard said. “But yes. In essence. What if there is a point to our existence, and the Borg are that point? Or are at least closer to achieving it than anything else?”

Data nodded. 

“I do not believe sufficient evidence exists either to prove or disprove that hypothesis,” he said. 

Picard smiled.

“No, of course not. Merely speculation. But… I wish I could dismiss the thought as easily as that. Humans are not good at simply filing ideas away as ‘unproven’.”

“I have noticed this,” Data said. “One of the human propensities I find most puzzling is the process described as ‘worrying’.”

Picard gave a short bark of laughter. Data looked puzzled.

“Have I said something amusing?” he said. “My statement does not match anything in my database of humorous language.”

“I’m not sure I can explain,” Picard said. 

“I see,” Data answered. “At another time, I will investigate further. For the moment, I do not wish to distract from your dilemma.”

“Honsetly, a brief distraction was welcome. But you’re right. I cannot help but ask myself… is individuality really so precious a thing as we are taught? Given what we have so often done with it?”

Data said nothing

“Data,” Picard said suddenly. “Why do you wish to be human?”

“My desire is determined by a number of factors,” Data said. 

“Please tell me. You know our history. It is full of horrors produced by individuals’ quest for personal fulfilment. You have seen first-hand what we are capable of. Why, in spite of all that, do you persist in seeking to understand the human condition? Why not abandon us to our flaws and suffering, and seek your own perfection?”

“As the Borg do,” Data said.

Picard nodded.

Data tilted his head to the side, as he did when thinking about something. 

“I am physically stronger than humans,” he said after a moment. “My structure is more resistent to heat, cold, pressure, and radiation. I can carry out far more simultaneous computations, much faster than most organic lifeforms. I have larger memory storage and more accurate recall. In most quantifiable ways, I am superior. But long ago I realised that there were many human qualities that are not quantifiable. Emotion. Imagination. An entire world of subjective experience that I lacked the capacity to interpret.”

“This simple feeling…” Picard said.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Just something I read in the Academy,” he said. “Go on.”

“Dr. Soong designed me to seek out new knowledge,” Data said. “In human terms, he gave me curiosity, and a drive to improve myself. I concluded that, if I wished to become as complete a being as I could, I would need to understand these human qualities. Perhaps, once I have done so, I will conclude, as you suggest, that they are unnecessary for me. But until I do, I cannot reasonably dismiss them.”

Data paused a moment.

“From what I have so far observed,” he continued, “I do not believe I will conclude that they are unnecessary.”

“That is comforting,” Picard said. “But I wish I could be certain.”

“I fear my investigations have not progressed that far,” Data said. 

Picard smiled faintly.

“Did you have more to say on this topic, sir?”

“I am sure I could,” Picard said. “But I don’t know that it would add much more light. You have heard the key matters.”

“Very well. May I ask you some questions?”

“Please.”

Data steepled his fingers, as Picard had seen him do when impersonating Sherlock Holmes. He wondered if Data was aware of the association.

“Once you had been recaptured from the Borg, when the cube was approaching Earth, your consciousness fought through and provided the signal that disabled their craft. If the experience of participating in the Collective was so positive, why did you do this?”

Picard shook his head.

“I cannot pretend to have perfect recall,” he said. “Much of my memory of those events is… confused. But I believe that I, the small part of me that was still Picard, could not bear the thought of the loss of my friends. My family. Everyone I love. The thought of Beverley, Riker, my brother, all those other billions of people being subsumed… Somehow, that felt… unacceptable.”

“It is curious,” Data said, “that when you speak of your own assimilation, you speak of an expansion of consciousness. When you speak of others’, you refer to it as being ‘subsumed.’ While you praise the experience of your own assimilation, you were willing to reject the Borg to deny it to others.”

Picard nodded slowly.

“I cannot fully explain it. Perhaps the individuality of others is easier to appreciate than our own. Or perhaps my own assimilation was simply not quite complete.”

“May I ask another question?” Data said. 

“Of course.”

“You mentioned that the Borg preserve the works of thousands of cultures. Do the Borg ‘enjoy’ them? I have noticed that organic beings derive considerable pleasure from artistic and literary works. Even I myself find certain cultural products amenable. Do the Borg experience a similar appreciation?”

“No,” Picard said. “Not in the way you mean. They experience… satisfaction, perhaps, at acquiring increasingly complete information about the universe. But there is no enjoyment, no engagement with any specific work.”

“Is this not an argument in favour of individual experience?” Data asked.

“I suppose it is,” Picard said. “Certainly, in my own life, some of the most sublime moments I have had have been in the contemplation of art, music, literature… the question I ask myself is, is that enough?”

Data nodded. 

“I have one final question,” he said. “If you were offered the chance to rejoin the collective at this moment, would you do so?”

Picard covered his face with his hands.

“I do not know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

Data took this in as impassively as ever. 

“I believe I have sufficient information to begin my evaluation,” he said. “With your permission, sir, I will go and consult psychological and legal works, and then return to give you my conclusion.”

“By all means,” Picard said. “When do you expect to have a conclusion?”

“I cannot give a precise time,” Data said. “In any case, both Dr. Crusher and Counsellor Troi have recommended that you should ensure that you sleep at least eight hours tonight. I will therefore wait until next day shift to report my findings. Would 0900 hours be an acceptable time?”

Picard glanced over at the chronometre. 2208, it read. He had had no idea how much time had passed. 

“That is fine, Data.”

“Very good, sir. Sleep well, Captain.”

“Thank you, Mr. Data.”

Picard watched the door hiss shut behind his second officer. Then with a sigh, he sank down onto his mattress. Sleep. How could he sleep with this hanging over him? He could not avoid the sense that tomorrow would see the end of his Starfleet career, and maybe, if Data’s ethical program so decided, the exposure of his great shame? How…

*

“Good morning sir,” Data said.

“Good morning, Data,” Picard replied, sipping the hot tea that the replicator had just delivered. “Have you come to a conclusion?”

“I have, sir. I have consulted all the available psychological resources on PTSD, survivor guilt, and other conditions brought on by the experience of trauma. I have also consulted works on addiction, abusive relationships, high-control religious and political groups, and a number of other potentially related issues. In addition, I have read a number of religious and philosophical texts on the nature of individuality and consciousness. Finally, I have gone over two centuries of Starfleet regulations and decisions. I also read the memoirs of both Captain Kirk and Ambassador Spock.”

“And?”

Data paused, as if choosing his words clearly. Picard felt his stomach clench.

“I have concluded that you are fit to remain in command of the Enterprise, and will be recommending this to Counsellor Troi and Dr. Crusher.”

Picard exhaled forcefully.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Yes sir.”

“Why?”

“At its most basic, what you have expressed to me is uncertainty about some of the foundational ideals of our society. While such doubt is clearly distressing to you personally, I do not consider it a threat to this ship, Starfleet, or the Federation at large.”

“I have admitted to sympathising with one of our greatest enemies,” Picard said.

“Yes sir. However, I judged that this sympathy is less dangerous than a complete lack of sympathy would be.”

Picard looked at him incredulously.

“I don’t understand.”

“In my research, I repeatedly found that complete certainty in the rightness of one’s own position is a primary feature of what is termed ‘fanaticism.’ And in almost all cases, a fanatical disposition is not in the long-term interest either of the individual or the organisation to which they belong. It leads to inflexibility, ethical violations, and, in extreme cases, totalitarian control. The consensus of the sources I consulted is that doubt and uncertainty as to one’s own righteousness are healthy qualities, particularly in positions of leadership.”

“I understand,” Picard said. “But how can you be sure my doubts will not win out? That the next time we face the Borg, I will not betray us in an attempt to rejoin the collective?”

“I cannot,” Data said. “But I have served with you for many years. Based upon my experiences, and those of the rest of the crew, I believe that the risk of such an event falls within acceptable margins.”

Picard slowly began to smile. But he couldn’t leave it there.

“Why?” he said again.

“In part because your response to becoming aware of your doubts was, as humans put it, ‘to wrestle with them.’ You applied your intelligence to seeking a way to reconcile your experience with the Borg with your commitment to the Federation.”

Picard felt weak. 

“So that’s it?” he said. 

Data shook his head. 

“No sir. I need to report my recommendation to Counsellor Troi and Dr. Crusher. I will tell them that I have judged you entirely fit to remain in command, subject to one condition.”

“And what is that?”

“That you and I continue to meet regularly to discuss the advantages and disadvantages of existence as an individual.”

Picard let out a confused laugh.

“My understanding of human humour clearly requires a great deal more nuance,” Data said. 

“Data, you are saying that my remaining captain of the Enterprise is contingent on my discussing philosophy with you?”

“Yes sir,” Data replied. “Based upon my research, your experience during the simulation was likely the result of the repression and denial of these thoughts. To avoid a relapse, it is my belief that a continued engagement with these questions would be of valuable. Also—”

Data paused, and Picard could have sworn the android looked slightly embarrassed.

“I believe I too would gain valuable insight into human subjectivity from these discussions.”

Picard smiled and shook his head. 

“I accept your conditions, Mr. Data. Please, make your report. And thank you.”

Awkwardly, Picard reached out his hand. Data took it, and Picard marvelled, as he always did, how normal Data’s skin felt. 

“You are welcome, sir,” he said. 

Picard reflexively reached down to tug his jacket, and realised for the first time that he was still in his pyjamas. He coughed, suddenly embarrassed. 

“I’ll see you on the bridge,” he said to Data. “Dismissed.”

Data walked out. Picard looked over to the closet where his uniforms hung, then shook his head, lay back down on the bed, and picked up his novel. He was still captain. And he, was, he decided, going to grant himself a morning off. He opened the book to his last place and began to read.

**Author's Note:**

> I love the Borg as a concept, but I've always felt that Star Trek never fully engaged with some of the philosophical questions that they raise. This is my attempt to dig into that a bit. Also, Picard is shown recovering waaaaay too fast, so I thought I'd give him a bit more angst.


End file.
